


Bite Size

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 16,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of smaller fics based on Tumblr prompts. Updated whenever a new prompt is filled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chris/sebastian, the voice

**Author's Note:**

> I regularly prompt for little fics on Tumblr (steverogersorbust.tumblr.com) and I thought it'd be good to compile the fills here!

Prompt: Chris/Sebastian, watching  _The Voice,_ complaining about Adam Levine

* * *

 

They’re getting lunch from catering when Chris sidles up next to Sebastian and announces: “Adam Levine is the  _worst_.”

The bagel lady shoots Chris an unimpressed glare. He gives a charming and apologetic smile back, and she melts a little, puts an extra bagel on his plate.

"I mean it," Chris hisses in an undertone. "He really is."

Sebastian tries his best puppy face to get an extra bagel of his own, but the lady isn’t having it. He frowns. “Can I have your bagel?” he asks Chris hopefully. 

Chris sighs and slips Sebastian his extra bagel. “Dude, I’m still thinking about last night’s episode,” he says, looking distressed. They begin to walk over to the trailers, plates balanced in hand.

Sebastian brightens. “Yeah, it was so good, that one girl with the braids was  _amazing_ —”

Chris takes a fierce bite of his bagel. “Umphhl Amph  _stowl_ hub,” he mumbles.

Sebastian nods sagely. “Yeah, Adam steals all the good ones. She should’ve gone to Usher, hands down.”

Scarlett, who’s passing by on her way to catering, gives them a disgusted look. “You losers take that show way too seriously,” she says. “And everyone knows Shakira is the best anyway.”

Chris sniffs. “ _That_  is why I watch it with Sebastian,” he says loftily. “You’d spend the whole time shitting all over everything I love. Just like people on those internet forums.”

Scarlett raises her eyebrows. “Internet forums,” she repeats. “Yeesh.” She shoots Sebastian a look like  _good luck_  and says with a smirk, “Also, you watch that show with Sebastian for a lot of reasons, Evans. And his poor taste in reality TV judges…probably not one of ‘em.”

Then she steals the apple off Chris’s plate and walks off, humming to herself, leaving Sebastian feeling oddly off-balance and Chris with a blush flaring bright on his face.

"ANYway," Chris says loudly, and steals Sebastian’s apple off  _his_ plate. Sebastian thinks about grumbling, but Chris is a big guy. He kinda needs the carbs. Sebastian very studiously does not let his eyes travel up and down the length of Chris’ body at the thought, not at his little waist or his massive pecs or the wide plane of his shoulders. (Maybe a  _little_ at his biceps, but Sebastian is only human, Jesus.)

"I wish I could sing," Chris says, and it’s so surprising that Sebastian almost walks into the trailer door. Chris snags Sebastian’s collar and tugs him back, giving him an affectionate smile. And he doesn’t even drop the plate he’s holding! Bastard.

Sebastian looks mournfully at his own food, scattered now on the concrete. 

"Don’t worry, I got a crapload of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my trailer," Chris says. "And a breakfast sandwich with your name on it, buddy."

"Oooh, you got one of those croissants?" Sebastian asks. "I started shooting too late. Wait—you  _saved_ one for me?”

Chris lets Sebastian in, grinning. “I know how you like bacon, egg, and cheese,” he says.

Sebastian does  _not_  sigh dreamily. But it’s a near thing. 

"So you wish you could sing?" he asks, plopping down on the sofa. Chris pours a glass of juice from the little fridge in the corner.

"Yeah," he says. "I play guitar, y’know, but I’d love to, like—really go full-on Buble. And I’d go on The Voice and get four chairs to turn, and then BAM! I’d tell Adam to suck it. And I’d pick Usher to mentor me, and then I’d be more famous than Justin Bieber."

Sebastian takes the glass Chris offers him. “Buddy,” he says carefully. “You kinda already are.”

Chris gets that look on his face like  _no I’m not_ and then  _oh right I am_ and then  _oh fuck me._

Sebastian can sympathize. Sometimes when people take pictures of him like, looking at the sky trying to remember if he wore clean underwear that day, it blows his mind.

"What would you sing?" he asks, to calm the encroaching anxiety in Chris’s eyes. He moves over to make room for Chris.

"Hmm," Chris hmms. He plops down next to Sebastian, knee pressing companionably against his. "Probably Kenny Loggins." He grins, then launches into Danger Zone.

Sebastian gapes. One—Chris is actually  _good_. His voice is deep, pleasant, and he can carry a tune. Two—again, he’s actually  _good._ Guy looks like an Adonis and is goofy and loves his dog and his mom and hates being publicly scrutinized and he can  _sing_.

Fuuuuck. Sebastian swallows and tries not to blurt out “The danger zone is in my pants,” or something equally ridiculous.

Chris stops singing at the look on Sebastian’s face. “I mean,” he says, scratching his chin, “I’m probably only Cee-Lo material, but it’d be cool. To try.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “No,” he says hastily.”Um, you—you’re really good. You’d totally get four chairs, man. Adam would  _beg_ you to be on his team. But you’d be too cool. Way too cool.”

Chris grins. “Well, that’d be a first,” he says, but he looks happier now, a little more certain. He bumps his foot against Sebastian’s. “Wanna rewatch last night’s episode and make fun of how bad Adam and Blake wanna bone? Oblivious idiots, man.”

Sebastian settles into Chris’s side, staunchly not dwelling on his warmth, or the state of his messy hair, and especially not the way he’s inching closer, shifting so his arm is draped across the back of couch, hand dangling in a near ruffle through the long hair at Sebastian’s neck.

"Yeah," he says weakly. "Idiots." 


	2. kate/clint, studying

Prompt: Clint/Kate, studying

* * *

 

"Kate, you haven’t slept in  _three days_ ,” Clint says, reaching over and closing the textbook cover. He pours a cup of coffee, humming in disapproval over Kate’s squawk of protest.

"I have to study, Clint," Kate whines, but there’s an edge of frustration and desperation to her voice that makes Clint ache a little. "I’m not just—some dumb kid with her daddy’s charge card and really good aim. I need this. I need to prove that I’m—something."

Clint hands Kate the coffee, watching steam curl around her face, framing her eyes, which look so much older than they used to. Clint’s heart aches again, and he touches Kate’s cheek. “Hey,” he says. “I’m a circus dropout who keeps getting almost killed by Russian mobsters. And I’m  _awesome_ , with or without some piece of paper you’re practically paying to get.” He leans in, touches his nose to Kate’s. “Trust me when I say you’re something, Kate,” he says. “You’re  _plenty_.” 


	3. steve/bucky, grinding

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, grinding + confessing a fetish

* * *

 

"Bucky," Steve whines. He rocks up against Bucky, both their dicks straining against their flies. Bucky’s practically rutting Steve’s thigh, riding the thick length of it, groaning into Steve’s ear as the friction increases between them. Bucky lips at Steve’s earlobe, tugs at it with his teeth, tongue circling the soft flesh.

"Bucky, come  _on.”_ Steve’s voice is low, hoarse. He inhales sharply as the hard ridge of his cock bumps Bucky’s. “ _Fuck_ , _"_ he says. “Unzip me, come on, fuck me, come  _on.”_

Bucky slides his hand underneath Steve’s shirt, spreads his palm over the jumping muscles of Steve’s abs, skin to skin. Steve’s face goes anguished, pupils blown wide.

"Bucky,  _please—”_

What Bucky’s discovered is this:

All it takes is a touch.  
  
|  
  
Sometimes it’s texture, the cool metal of Bucky’s hand or the rough grain of his stubble. Sometimes it’s cloth: silk, cotton, leather—which in their line of work, raises some  _interesting_ questions about how Steve’s managed to hide it this long.

And sometimes it’s just skin, the deliberate brush of fingertips over the inside of his elbow, the nape of his neck.

Whatever it is that sets Steve off, though, it’s instantaneous. One minute he’ll be fine, and then without warning, he’ll go very still, his eyes dark and almost dazed. Pink will spread like wildfire over the working column of his throat, the high cut of his cheekbones, the tips of his ears. His mouth will drop slightly open, bottom lip going slack, the expression on his face best described as  _hungry_.

Sometimes Bucky likes to slip his hand into Steve’s when they’re at a crowded restaurant, just to see if his fingers will curl or if his forearm will go ropey under the strain of his tensed muscles. If he’ll turn to Bucky and say through gritted teeth, “Bathroom,  _now_.” If he’ll tug Bucky into the nearest empty stall and drop to a crouch, unzipping Bucky’s fly so he can suck his cock down, a groan in his throat and one hand stroking down the denim-clad expanse of Bucky’s leg.

He’s tactile, Steve is.

Bucky can’t say he doesn’t take advantage of it.  
  
|

"I like…things that feel nice."

Steve is very studiously avoiding Bucky’s eyes, choosing instead to inspect a tomato for bruises.

Bucky picked up an avocado and mirrors Steve’s actions. “That a fact,” he says blandly. If Steve wants to elaborate, he will.

Steve swallows, chucks the tomato into a bag with five others. “Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes when I touch something or it touches me and it, I dunno, feels a certain way…it gets me—” he cuts off, flaring red. Bucky can’t help but be intrigued; Steve doesn’t normally waste time with things like embarrassment or shame.

"Hot?" Bucky prompts, voice low."You tryin’ to tell me something in particular gets you going?"

Steve cracks a small smile, adjusting the brim of his ball cap over his eyes. “Everything you do gets me going, dummy,” he says quietly. “But some things…get me going faster than others.”

Leave it to Steve to confess a—a kink or, what, a fetish—in the middle of a crowded grocers where Bucky can’t do a damn thing about it.

Well—can’t do a whole  _lot_ about it, anyway.

He reaches over, skims an experimental touch over the backs of Steve’s fingers, just a whisper of sensation.

A shiver, minute but there. Steve’s mouth firms in a line.

"Bucky," he says. "In the  _produce_ section?”

Bucky notices Steve isn’t exactly saying  _no_  to the produce section. He might capitalize on that, but he’s got bigger, better plans. The veggies at Whole Foods can wait for another day to see two grown men get fresh with each other in plain sight.

"Nah," he says. "At home. As  _soon_  as we get through the door.”

They’ve never paid for groceries faster, probably. 

|

And they never make it through the door, either.

(The security footage from the elevators to their building mysteriously disappears a day later.)

 


	4. steve/bucky, shotgunning

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, shotgunning

* * *

 

"Where did you even  _get_ it?” Steve asks, perplexed. 

Bucky gives him a long, heavy-lidded look. There’s a haze of sweet-smelling smoke circling his head, and his skin is pink, slightly flushed. His mouth is spit-shiny, tongue darting out every few seconds to wet his lips. Steve tries not to stare.

"Doctor Banner thought it’d help," Bucky says finally, voice low and syrup-thick, a drawl lengthening the words. He sounds relaxed, almost sleepy. “‘s nice, Steve. Wanna try?"

Steve frowns. He might, actually. But the joint in Bucky’s hand is just the sort of thing that’s never worked for Steve. Alcohol, caffeine, the occasional antibiotic—his body just doesn’t respond to anything that tries to alter it. Which is a damn shame, because right now, looking at the way Bucky’s sprawled on the couch, hair messy and eyes ringed with a slight hint of red that only brings out the blue of his irises even more, Steve wouldn’t mind an excuse to join him.  
  
Bucky seems to pick up on his indecision, because he beams, sudden and bright. “Come on,” he cajoles. “Just once, Steve. Don’t be a chicken.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an ass,” he retorts back, but the slight smile on his face takes any bite from the words. “Fine. Move over.”

He takes a seat next to Bucky on the couch, shifting till he’s settled close. Bucky is a warm weight, thigh pressed against Steve’s, touching him with all the easy intimacy of friends who know they’re allowed to be affectionate.

It kills Steve a little bit, how badly he wants to take that intimacy to the next level. How much he won’t  _let_ himself. It’s gotta be Bucky’s choice, if it happens at all—and really, Steve’s used to waiting, isn’t he? Seventy years of practice and all.

"So," he says, because he really does get maudlin if he lets himself. "You have to show me how," He rubs his chin, suddenly self-conscious.  "I’ve never done this."

Bucky’s eyes are soft. “Damn shame,” he says. “You deserve a rest more than anyone I know, Steve.” He leans in, touches Steve’s cheek with cool metal fingers. “Hey,” he says. “D’you trust me?” 

"Yeah, of course." Steve’s answer is immediate.

Bucky gives a sigh that’s half affectionate and half exasperated. “One of these days, I’d like ya to actually  _think_ about it before ya tell me,” he says. ”But good. I’m glad.  ’Cause ‘m gonna try something.”

He holds the joint between his finger and thumb, pinches his lips around one end and inhales. The cherry burns red, and Steve’s focus narrows to the round ‘O’ of Bucky’s mouth, the fan of his downcast lashes, the stubble on his cheeks and neck.

Then, the fingers on his cheek are slipping down, curving around his nape, tugging Steve close. Before Steve can register what’s happening, Bucky’s mouth is sealing over his, smoke rolling from his lungs into Steve’s own.

Bucky’s lips taste like chapstick and beer and the green bite of dried herb. The smoke is sweet and heavy, heady, billowing between them, escaping in curls, twisting into the sky. For a moment, his mouth moves like it’s a kiss, slanting restlessly, a hot breath passing between them. Steve gasps, a jolt of arousal making his belly go tight.

Then, the urge to inhale becomes instinctive. Steve breaks away, finds that though the smoke in his lungs does scrape, it doesn’t make him cough. Instead, he breathes even deeper, hissing a stream of smoke from between his lips when he exhales.

The shadows play across Bucky’s face, make his expression inscrutable. “What’d you think?” he asks, and his voice is scratchier now, sounds strained. 

Steve reaches out, wipes a thumb across Bucky’s lips, feels the shiver of warm breath on his fingertip.

"I think I wanna try that again," he says.


	5. sam, natasha, bucky, and steve: do it for the vine

Prompt: Sam and Natasha, do it for the vine

* * *

 

Natasha is really handy with knives. Sam has a lot of fruit. Steve is easily spooked for someone with such good reflexes.   
  
All of these facts combined means that Natasha’s currently got more Vine subscribers than even Johnny Storm, and all  _he_ posts is video clips of himself shirtless.  
  
|  
  
"It’s called Fruit Ninja," Natasha explains to Bucky, who’s standing with his arms folded, looking extremely unimpressed. "Basically, you throw a piece of fruit in the air and then hack it to little pieces." She smiles proudly. "Mine are more finely julienned than a French chef’s," she says.  
  
Bucky arches an eyebrow. “What’s this got to do with Steve?” he asks.

Natasha grins. “If you catch him at exactly the right time, sometimes the angle of his shield slices  _right_  through the bigger pieces of fruit.”

Sam chooses that moment to walk in. Carrying… a watermelon.

Bucky drops his face into his palms.

"Do it for the vine!" Sam cheers, giving Natasha a high-five.

 


	6. clint/kate, crap tv

Prompt: Clint/Kate, making fun of each other's taste

* * *

 

"What is this crap?" Kate asks, plopping down on the couch next to Clint. His eyes, bleary and blue, are riveted to the TV screen. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.   
  
"Clint?" Kate pokes Clint’s shoulder. "Hawkeye?"

Clint hands Kate the bowl of cereal in his hands without saying a word. Onscreen, a woman is weeping copiously.  
  
"Is this  _Grey’s Anatomy?_ And Raisin Bran?” Kate snorts, shovels a spoonful of Raisin Bran into her mouth. “Man, questionable taste in television and cereal, rough deal.”

Clint frowns. “Heyyy,” he says.

Apparently, the only thing that can snap Clint out of a stupor is a little trash talk. 

"Grey’s Anatomy is underrated," he insists. "Best drama on primetime. I just marathoned…four seasons?"  
  
Kate stares at him. He stares back.  
  
With a sigh, Kate slumps into the couch. “I like the doctor who always looks like she can’t stand anyone else in the hospital,” she concedes. “Yang?”

Clint makes a noise of triumph. “I  _knew_ you watched it!” He grins, leans over and grabs the bowl of cereal back. 

"Puh-leeze," Kate scoffs and debates stealing back the Raisin Bran. She compromises by scooping a handful of cereal from the bowl and grinning at Clint’s indignant squawk. "Eli used to sneak episodes and I’d watch with him. But it’s strictly a time killer. You want good television, you ought to watch Game of Thrones."  
  
Clint gives her an unimpressed look. “If I wanted fucked up families and blood-thirsty murderers, I’m spoiled for choice in real life, Katie-Kate,” he says.   
  
On the TV, two doctors are getting it on. Kate scowls. “You’re missing quality drama for this stuff,” she says. “I don’t approve. My mentor should have better judgement.”

Clint taps Katie’s cheek. “I picked  _you_ , didn’t I?” he asks.

Kate gives a huff and slides deeper into the couch, letting her head rest on Clint’s shoulder. 

"I guess," she says fondly, and silently makes a vow to replace all of Clint’s currently DVR’d television.


	7. steve/thor, drunk friendship

Prompt: Steve/Thor, friendship

 

* * *

"Look," Steve says. "Look here, Thor. I won’t fight you! You’re my—you’re my _friend_ …” he trails off, brow furrowed. “Are we holding hands?” he asks.  
  
Thor gives Steve’s hand a squeeze. “Aye,” he says, grinning. “After a fashion.” He claps Steve on the shoulder with his other hand. Steve lists sideways. Thor hastily grabs Steve’s collar and hauls him back upright.  
  
"Why’re we holding hands?" Steve asks, after a dizzy moment. Not that holding hands with Thor is a  _bad_ thing. It’s just he’d like to know how they came to be sitting in the kitchen of Avengers Tower, a mountain of empty Chinese takeout containers between them and their hands slotted firmly together.

Steve wriggles his fingers. It feels kinda nice. He yawns, then hiccups. It feels  _really_ nice.  
  
Thor wriggles his fingers back, gestures at the large tankard of Asgardian ale on the kitchen island. “You drank a whole pint of ale, then challenged me to a duel,” he says. “What on Midgard is called…arm wrestling, I believe.”  
  
Steve brightens. “That’d be fun with you,” he says earnestly. “I wouldn’t need to be careful.”

Thor inclines his head. “Only the Hulk is a rival to my strength,” he says modestly. “And you, of course, Steven.”   
  
Steve smiles goofily. “Aw, no. You’re the strongest, Thor. Like a, like a…like a big giant…giant.”  
  
His head droops.   
  
Thor grins. “I am a big giant giant, yes,” he says. “One benefit of such stature is the ease with which I can carry my comrades when they are fallen.” In one fluid movement, Thor tugs Steve to his feet. “Tomorrow, we will wrestle arms,” he says, coming around the side of the island, bracing Steve against his shoulder. “Tonight, you rest.” 


	8. clint/kate, kiss

Prompt: Clint/Kate, trying to turn the other off

* * *

 

The thing with practically living with a guy like Clint is that sometimes, a girl’s bound to see things she shouldn’t. Underwear littering the floor, coffee mugs left out so long there’s actual mold growing in them, the occasional YouPorn window left open when she borrows Clint’s laptop.  
  
But nothing could prepare Kate for the utter horror of  _this_.  
  
"Is that—peanut butter and pickles?" she demands, covering her mouth. She’s laying down on Clint’s couch, feet in his lap, as he consumes what looks like the most disgusting sandwich on planet Earth.  
  
"Yeah," Clint mumbles around a mouthful, spraying crumbs. He gives a goofy grin when Kate mimes puking. "Aw, Katie-Kate, it’s good, I swear. The perfect marriage of textures."

Kate makes a face. “The perfect marriage of gross and hell no,” she corrects, and grabs the remote. “Have fun getting someone to kiss you with  _that_ breath.”  
  
Clint frowns and takes a big bite. “Maybe I don’t want anyone to kiss me,” he says somewhat petulantly. “Maybe I’m trying to swear off women right now. Find myself, y’know, that whole thing.”

Kate squints. “Right,” she says. She turns up the volume on Dog Cops.

Clint nudges her foot. “I’m serious,” he says. “If I wanted to, I could totally get someone to kiss me.  _Totally._ ”

Kate shrugs. “Okay,” she says, and tries not to smile because Clint is taking the bait so well.  
  
"Kate." Clint looks serious for a moment. "Kate, come on. You’d kiss me, right?" His hand drops to Kate’s ankle, big and warm.

"I’m allergic to peanut butter," she says.

"Kate." His hand twitches, like he wants to move it up but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

"And idiots. Really allergic to those. Anaphylactic shock-levels."

“ _Kate_.” And now he sounds rueful, but relieved. Like he gets her game. Good, Kate thinks. Took him long enough to pick up on it. 

Figures it would be after eating a sandwich as atrocious as  _that._

Clint’s hand moves up her leg, skimming over the bare surface and hovering for a moment. Kate lets her thighs fall open, and even in the flickering glow of the TV, she can see Clint’s pupils dilate.

"Come on, Clint," she says softly. "Ask me again."

Clint swallows. His voice is hoarse when he says, “You’d kiss me, Kate.”

His thumb presses into the tender skin of her thigh, sweeping. Kate stifles the breath that’s threatening to spill from her lips, the half-gasp.  
  
” _Ask_  me again,” she says, and captures his hand. Twines her fingers through his.

Clint’s looking at her mouth now, stupid face covered in bandages and stubble, peanut butter and pickle sandwich lying forgotten in his lap. Kate feels her heart squeeze and her stomach bottom out at the thought of kissing him.

"Kate," he says. "Kiss me?"

She does.


	9. steve/bucky, church

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, church

* * *

 

It’s not that Steve’s ashamed. He’s  _not_. He’s seventeen, and his body is a mess, and he’s got an overactive imagination, everyone says so. It’s just…he sort of wishes this kind of thing wouldn’t happen in  _church._

"Stevie," Bucky whispers from next to him, a grin in his voice. "Where’d you get that banana in your pocket, and why ain’t you sharing?"

Steve’s blush, a soft heat at the back of his neck, flares high and hot. “Bucky,” he hisses. “Shut the hell up.”

Bucky snickers. “Now that’s very ungodly language, pal. You’ll have to do penance…for that among other things, I bet.”

Steve squirms. “Pipe down,” he says out the side of his mouth. “It’s normal. Very normal.” He tries valiantly to think about something disgusting. The smell of rotting garbage in the alley behind the church. That wart on his neighbor’s chin. Bucky, spouting blood after a fight, bright red and stark on a swollen bottom lip—

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Bucky breathes. "What are you even  _thinking_ about?”

Steve ducks his head into his hands, miserable. “I’m tryin’ not to think about anything,” he bites out. “Ma’s sick enough—should be here praying for her, not gettin’ a lift on a church pew.”

Bucky is silent for a second next to Steve, the line of his body a familiar wall of warmth. “Lemme help out,” he says finally, voice quiet. He leans closer, and for a wild moment, Steve thinks he means  _literally_ , imagines Bucky spitting into his palm and reaching over, splitting the seam of Steve’s trousers, wrapping his hand around Steve’s dick, slick heat and steady friction, soft sounds of approval coming out of his mouth as he encourages Steve to “ _finish, yeah, com’n Steve, ya gotta hurry, that’s a good boy, feels good, feels good, right? Com’n—”_

Then Bucky’s hand is gripping Steve’s thigh, dwarfing the slim span of it. “Whatever you’re thinking about, you should probably stop,” he says, and his voice sounds strained. “Your eyes just about rolled to the back of your head.”

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, tries to steady the galloping of his heart.

"Listen, I’m gonna just talk to you," Bucky says, voice low and gravelly, like it’s being pulled from the pit of his stomach. "Just somethin’ simple. Baseball. Yeah, we’re gonna talk about baseball."

And then he’s whispering into Steve’s ear, baseball stats and idle observations about players and the occasional bit of trash talk. And it should help. It should be mind-numbing, or at the very least, so interesting that Steve’s attention is diverted.

But all he can focus on is the rasp of Bucky’s voice, the brush of his mouth agains the sensitive outer shell of Steve’s ear, the burning points of contact where his fingers are still digging into Steve’s thigh, and, and—

 _Brushing against the bulge in Steve’s trousers_. Steady, slight, stroking bits of pressure. Against all odds, Steve’s dick hardens even further.

Steve gives a whimper, a small noise like he’s been punched, the breath pulling out of his chest in shallow bursts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky swallow.

After that, Steve doesn’t ever look at baseball quite the same way.


	10. kate/bucky, kiss

Prompt: Bucky/Kate, kiss

* * *

 

"Are you  _kidding_ me?” Kate hisses, folding her arms. “No way, I’m not doing it.”

Bucky closes his eyes and tells himself to count to ten. He makes it to three before he bursts out: “Black Widow would!”

Katie likes Natalia, Bucky remembers. Maybe she’ll be swayed.

"Yeah, well, Black Widow has a giant lady boner for you. Potato, pota _no._ " She makes a face. "That sounded better in my head, but the point is, not on your angsty ex-Soviet assassin ass."

Okay, maybe not.

Bucky darts a look behind Katie. “Fine, do you have a  _better_ idea to deal with the bad guys?” he sulks, and wow. He hasn’t whined like this in decades. Maybe longer—he wasn’t exactly the type of kid that needed to wheedle to get his way.

"A better idea than hard charging a group of thirteen burly henchmen with one broken longbow and your metal arm?" Katie asks incredulously. 

Bucky shifts. “…Yeah.” he says.

Katie looks over her shoulder at the slowly approaching mass of shadowy figures. “Of  _course_  I do,” she says brightly.   
  
Then she’s grabbing Bucky by the lapels of his jacket and saying in a quick whisper: “Is it okay if I kiss you?”  
  
Bucky’s eyes widen. “Wait, what—”  
  
"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," she recites dutifully. Bucky’s gaze narrows.  _Now_ Katie listens to her super-heroine idol.  
  
The men come closer. One of them is talking loudly in half English half Russian, describing the very colorful ways in which he’s  _gonna make them pay, bro_ ,  _that bitch in the purple and her old man_.

Bucky’s eyebrows draw down. Old man? He might be seventy-plus, but he still only looks like he’s in his early thirties. He’s very youthful!   
  
"Make a decision, dude," Katie whispers again, tugging at Bucky’s collar. "If you say no, my next plan is to just kick the closest one in the nads and run away really fast—"

Bucky slips his hand through Katie’s hair and tilts her chin up, slanting his mouth neatly over hers.

She tastes good, like coffee and gum and expensive lipstick. Perfume clings to her, the smell of jasmine and citrus shampoo. She’s soft, and warm, and she kisses with an enthusiasm that almost surprises Bucky. Her lips part under his and then she’s slipping her tongue into his mouth, the first electric touch sending a lightning bolt of arousal through his system.

He curls his fingers in her hair, cradles the curve of her skull, lets her sag slightly in his arms as if her knees are getting weak. Their kiss deepens, and she moans, a low sound of approval and desire that filters through the night.

One of the henchmen says something derisive in Russian and they all laugh. 

Bucky tenses. Katie slides her hand down to the back pockets of his jeans, tiptoeing so her hips are aligned with his, then tugging. Bringing them close. She continues kissing him, the cling of her lips leaving small tremors of sensation in their wake.

The henchmen look away, another one of them spitting on the sidewalk. 

They move on, and Bucky waits a couple more minutes before slowing the fervor of his kissing with Katie.

He loosens his hold. Katie detaches, slipping away and coming down to the heels of her feet.  
  
"Well," she says, voice husky. "Maybe Black Widow isn’t the only one with a lady boner for you."

 


	11. chris/sebastian, co-star makeout

Prompt: Chris/Sebastian, anything

* * *

 

Look, the thing is—Sebastian’s got these  _lips_.

Chris isn’t the type to fixate—okay, well, that’s a lie, he fixates on all kinds of stuff all the fucking time, but. He usually doesn’t fixate on his costars. On their mouths. Not like this.

But Scarlett and Mackie, the enabling enablers that they are, just  _happen_ to mention  _casually_  one day that this is the first project that Sebastian’s done in awhile where he hasn’t kissed someone and, okay, two things:

1) How do they even know that, and

2) What, really?

So Chris spends the entirety of a really serious action scene trying not to get stabbed by Sebastian’s stunt double and thinking of that one time Scarlett convinced him Bradley Cooper had three testicles. Which, well. Obviously means he needs to confirm her and Mackie’s claim. For science. And his dignity.

A little research is in order.

Three hours later, Chris closes the Youtube app and thinks, bewildered,  _I thought Hemsworth was a fluke_.

|

Hint: he wasn’t. He was just the  _start._

|

There’s this scene where Chris basically has his body wound around Sebastian’s for like, hours. Before, he might’ve cut the monotony with a story about his dog, or a joke, or something.

This time, he spends a good couple of minutes watching Sebastian lick his lips.

"Chapstick," he finally blurts. 

Sebastian gives him a politely weirded-out look. “Huh?” he asks, moving the hair from his eyes.

"You need—" Chris gestures, eyes still locked on all the—the pink, and the, the  _pout_. “Chapstick. Licking ‘em will dry ‘em out.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows raise. His gaze darts to Chris’s own mouth for a second, and then—strangely enough—glazes over.  

Huh.

"Right," Sebastian says, swiping a thumb over his lower lip. There’s a hint of red in his cheeks that is sort of…intriguing. "Uh, thanks."

Chris smiles brightly, feeling a little unhinged. “No problem!” he says loudly. “Great talking to you!” And then he scrambles away, waving like a giant dork.  _Waving_.

"You too," Sebastian says faintly, and when Chris chances a look back, he’s biting that same lower lip, trying to hide the smile that’s tilting at the edges.

God _damn_ it.

|

"Yo Captain Small Ass," Mackie says at lunch, holding out Chris’s iPhone, "how come the most recent thing in your Google search was ‘Sebastian Stan kis—mphh!"

|

The wrap party is where it all pretty much comes to a head.

A dark bar, karaoke, lots of people that he loves and trusts, lots of alcohol…Chris should be in his element.

Instead, he’s in a corner like a giant creep, watching Sebastian from across the room.

The lights are dim, but he can still see the outline of Sebastian’s mouth as it curves around the rim of his glass. He’s so intent on the slight gleam of moisture on his upper lip, the bead of beer that’d be so easy to just—lick off—that he misses the intensity of Sebastian’s eyes on  _him_.

Sebastian’s a sweet, quirky, funny guy. But he also plays all these brooding, darkly handsome type of characters. So when he walks over to Chris, glass held loosely in his hand, one eyebrow arched, he does it with the slinky kind of single-minded, predatory grace that feels learned, and makes everything seem a little surreal.

"You’ve been looking," he says quietly, when he’s close enough to be heard over the music. "I’ve been looking, too."

Thank  _God._ Relief is a tangible thing. “I thought you were gonna ask me to stop being such a weirdo.”

Sebastian grins, one side of his mouth lifting. Chris swallows against the rush of desire that pools in his belly as his eyes fall to Sebastian’s lips automatically.

"I’d never dream of telling you to stop being a weirdo," Sebastian says. "I  _like_ weirdos.”

Chris tries to say something. It mostly comes out as a strangled giggle. 

Sebastian leans in. His hand twists in Chris’s collar, tugs him a little closer. He looks strangely sure of himself, like everything has been leading up to this moment.

Chris, on the other hand, feels like his limbs are going kinda watery. Which is, you know. New.

He slips one hand through Sebastian’s hair, the other insinuating itself in Sebastian’s belt. Strictly for anchoring purposes.

Sebastian’s eyes darken. “And you know what, Chris,” he says, mouth whispering over Chris’s own, “I put on that chapstick, too.”

|

When they kiss, It’s like the ground shifts under Chris’s feet.

At the first touch of Sebastian’s lips against his own, Chris’s knees  _wobble_ , a visceral rearranging of his balance just from the papery brush of Sebastian’s mouth, the scratch of his stubble. Chris drags a shuddery breath in through his nose, hand still anchored in Sebastian’s hair, and in response, Sebastian parts his lips, shifts so he’s closer.

Chris can’t help the moan that rises out of him, pulled from the tips of his toes, when he feels Sebastian’s tongue touch his own.

At the moan, Sebastian goes very, very still. Then with a responding groan, a rough almost rueful sound, Sebastian kisses Chris again. And again, and again,tilting his head each time, investigating the best way to press even closer, to taste even more, a storm of slick heat and stroking tongue. Chris shifts, lets his legs drop open a bit to cradle Sebastian’s thigh, unconsciously seeking friction as his gut tightens and his dick hardens.

He tastes like beer, and waxy chapstick, and hot skin. Chris thinks  _Fuck_ ,  _fuck, fuck me_ because now he’s never gonna be able to look at Sebastian and erase that information. 

But from the dazed look in Sebastian’s eyes when they break apart, the appreciative glint under the downcast fan of his lashes…maybe Chris won’t have to erase it after all.

|

So even if Sebastian didn’t end up making out with anyone  _onscreen_ —he does still get time with a costar.

Scarlett and Mackie never let Chris hear the end of it.

 


	12. sam, natasha, steve, bucky: sleep

Prompt: OT4, can't sleep without each other.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Natasha—are you awake?"

Natasha yawns and stirs. “Yeah,” she says. Her voice is bleary, sleep-cloudy. “What’s up?”

 Steve scratches at the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “I just heard you tossing and turning. And I thought, if you couldn’t sleep either, maybe you could help with—” He pauses. “Bucky.”

Natasha sits up slowly, stretching. “What’s wrong?”

Steve shuffles his feet. His shoulders are so wide they fill the entire doorframe, but the dim light of the living room lamp burns gently behind his silhouette.

"Bucky’s still awake?" Natasha guesses, blinking into the dark.

Steve nods. “Nightmares,” he says. “He won’t go back to sleep. Sometimes it’s fine, just having me there. But other times…I kinda…make it worse.”

Natasha stretches again. “Not your fault, Steve,” she says. “The past is a bloody place for some of us. There are nights when precious little will help us outrun the red.”

And then she’s swinging out of bed, sauntering past Steve, her hand brief and warm on the clenched muscles of his jaw.

When Steve can bring himself to go back to the living room, where he’d left Bucky sitting on the couch staring blankly at the television, Natasha is curled up against a pile of throw pillows, holding Bucky’s head in her lap, singing something quiet and haunting while moving her fingers through the tousled mop of his hair. His eyes are finally closed, shoulders moving in a deep, steady rhythm as he breathes. 

Steve’s heart squeezes at the unguarded peace on his face.

"You’ve been dreaming, too."

It’s not a question. Even as Natasha’s hand keeps rifling through Bucky’s hair, her eyes pin Steve in place.

Steve shrugs awkwardly. “Nothing too bad,” he lies. Thinks of the horror in Bucky’s eyes when he wakes up from fitful sleep, the cries that tear through his throat. The curl of his fingers, stiff and reaching. A scream encompassed in a gesture.

No, what’s in his head is nothing too bad at all, compared to what Bucky’s got.

Natasha looks dubious. “Bad enough that you’re not even getting the four or five hours that you do usually,” she says. “I know living at Stark Tower is an adjustment, but that can’t be what’s bothering you.”

Steve sighs, and takes a heavy seat in an armchair next to the sofa on which Natasha and Bucky are curled.

"I’ve never been a great sleeper," he confesses. "But lately, when I close my eyes, I keep…"

He trails off, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. 

Natasha tilts her head. “This is a safe space, Rogers,” she teases, the yellow glow from the lamp framing her face in soft tones. 

Steve cracks a smile, but furrows his brow, looks at a fixed point in the distance.

"I dream that I’m stuck," he says. "Doesn’t matter where—sometimes it’s the ice, and sometimes it’s just a kind of stasis, but whatever happens, I can’t break free. And I have to watch everything pass me by. Every _one_  pass me by.” He looks down at his hands. “I have to watch bad things happen, and I can’t do a single damn thing.”

A voice comes from the entryway: “Sounds like we’re brain twins, Cap.”

Steve turns his head, can’t help the wave of happiness that settles over him at the sight of Sam standing there in his pajama pants and a comfortable t-shirt, eyes a little bleary but expression otherwise serious. Having Sam around is always like having a balloon tied to his wrist and an anchor wrapped around his ankle at the same time—someone to weigh him down and help him fly, all at once.

"Nightmares for you, too?" Steve asks, and Sam shrugs, like it’s commonplace.

"Did we wake you?" Natasha adds, but doesn’t look contrite. 

Sam grins at her. “You know damn well you have what my mama calls a ‘carrying’ voice.”

Natasha flashes a grin back. In her lap, Bucky stirs, but doesn’t wake.

Sam’s face softens when he catches sight of Bucky. He grabs a blanket from the other couch in the room, throws the heavy knit over Bucky’s shoulders and pats his arm briefly before plopping down on the floor at Steve’s feet.

Steve places a hand at the back of Sam’s neck, presses his thumb into the tendons there.

"Looks like we’re all up with our demons tonight," he says quietly.

Sam lets out a breath, leans his head against the back of Steve’s legs. “Yeah, well.” He flashes a smile up at Steve, then over at Natasha. “At least our demons have got some stellar company.”

They fall asleep like that, four superheroes slumped in various uncomfortable sprawling positions on the floor and on a couch and a too-small armchair. But they’re together, and in the morning, their faces have less shadows in them than before.


	13. steve/bucky, first kiss

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, first kiss

* * *

 

"C’mere, Steve—"

Bucky’s loaded.

"Stevie—"

Completely lit.

"Come on, come closer, it’s  _cold_ —”

Pie-eyed. Ossified. Drunk off his head.

"Steve…"

And curled all the way around Steve’s body, humming contentedly into Steve’s neck. Like Mrs. Rooney’s cat next door, except larger, and sleeker, and…well, Mrs. Rooney’s cat doesn’t make Steve’s belly swim with heat and nerves, does it?

Bucky snuffles, rubbing his nose into the hollow between Steve’s shoulder and jaw. He’s warm, so warm,  arm thrown over Steve’s waist, one leg tucked between Steve’s skinny thighs. The bed suddenly feels twice as small as usual, but Steve can’t quite get the energy—or heart—to push Bucky away.

He might, even, tug Bucky closer. Strictly to keep him from falling off the mattress of course.

"You stop off at the bar tonight?" he asks, carding his hand through Bucky’s hair gently.

"Just for a—for a tipple," Bucky snorts. "A little—" he hiccups, "—lil sip. But I got _lonely_ , Steve. Was all  _alone_.”

Steve grins into the dark. Bucky hums again, butts his head against Steve’s hand. Steve resumes sliding his fingers through the soft strands at Bucky’s nape.

"You’re never alone, Buck," he says, "Always got me."

Bucky sighs at that, curls even closer around Steve, fingers tightening in the baggy cotton of Steve’s pajamas.

"Always got you," he agrees. "An’ you always got me. Next time come drinkin’. Whiskey ish—" he stops, corrects himself. "— _is_  good.”

Steve gives a wry smile. “I bet,” he says. It’s not like he hasn’t ever drank before, but getting sick so often, and being so thin, alcohol doesn’t always have the best effect on Steve. And with work, well. He hasn’t gone to the bar with Bucky in awhile, that’s all. He misses him. All the time, he misses him, but on nights like this most of all.

Bucky looks up, eyes dark and wide in the filtered moonlight from the window. His gaze looks slightly bleary, cheeks and throat spangled slightly pink. “Wanna taste?” he asks.

Steve blinks, startled. “Do I…” he clears his throat. “Do I want a taste of what, Buck?”

Bucky smiles like he’s got a great idea. “Whiskey! Toppa the shelf, Stevie!” He makes a face. “Well, no. Not really. But it was good. And it—it—” he seems to search for his words. “On m’lips. There’s still some..and you could…”

He trails off. Steve blinks again, unaccountably off-balance. “I could…?” he asks hesitantly.

Bucky seems to think for a long moment. His eyes dart across Steve’s face, brow furrowed. He looks bewildered, and fond, and very dear. Steve’s heart squeezes,  _aches_ with how bad he wants to—

"I really wanna kiss you."

Steve’s breath leaves him in a rush. “Bucky?” he asks, chest gone tight. Bucky is still lying in his arms, boneless and heavy, but all of a sudden everything feels very unreal.

Bucky shrugs, gaze still unfocused. “I should’n say anything,” he says earnestly. “I know it.  _Know_ it.” His lashes are very long, his lips very red. “But I do. I wanna just—”

He tilts his face closer, and unconsciously, Steve’s face tilts closer too. Slowly, infinitesimally, their mouths brush, Bucky’s hand floating up to frame Steve’s jaw. Steve’s breath leaves him in a rush, and Bucky gives an answering groan, leaning up to kiss Steve more fully.

Bucky tastes like alcohol, sharp and somehow earthy. His mouth is hot, urgent, the kiss a little messy, without finesse. Steve doesn’t mind; he just clings to the rumpled collar of Bucky’s shirt and goes along for the ride.

He does take a moment to appreciate, heart hammering and dick thickening in his pants, that this is his first kiss. Ever.

After a second, they part, both breathing heavily, lips swollen. Steve runs his tongue along his lower lip. He can still taste Bucky there.

Bucky’s eyes are closed, a slight smile on his face.

"That was nice," he says, almost dreamily. "That was really nice, Steve."

Steve makes a noise. “Yeah,” he says. “Nice is one word.”

He’s still hard when Bucky drifts off to sleep, snoring slightly into Steve’s chest.

Bucky doesn’t remember when the morning comes. Somehow, Steve didn’t expect him to, but it weighs in his heart, a memory like a stone, like a sun, painful but illuminating. It’s a memory Steve carries with him for years afterward, when Bucky comes home from the bar but never comes back to Steve’s bed, when Bucky looks at him for a second too long, when Bucky goes off to war with a question in his eyes and regret tipping his smile.

A memory that Steve holds right until the very next time they’re together on a cold night, a glass of alcohol between them, and an invisible force pulling Bucky towards Steve, hair mussed and eyes dark, but mouth hungry.

"Hey Buck," Steve says, holding the pint of beer, light glinting off the metal of his army uniform, the dog tags around Bucky’s neck. "Wanna taste?"


	14. Clint/Kate, mistletoe

Prompt: Clint/Kate, mistletoe

* * *

 

When Clint opens his door on Christmas Eve, Kate’s standing in the hallway, snow in her lashes and a smile on her face.

"Bossman," Kate greets, leaning into the doorjamb, Santa hat tilted rakishly over her eyes.

Clint grins. “Katie-Kate,” he responds, opening the door wider. He pauses as she makes no move to come in. “You gonna stay out there all night?” he asks. “Only I taped the Dog Cops Reunion Special and got us like, five pizzas to share. Also! Mulled wine. Which tastes like watery grape juice and engine oil, I think I made it wrong—”

"Mistletoe," Kate blurts. She freezes, then slaps a hand over her eyes. "Jeez, I—" She waves her hand airily. "I’d love to do all that stuff, Clint. Sounds kinda perfect. But I, uh." 

She makes a tortured sound, then moves her other hand from behind her back. Dangling from between two fingers is a little green herb.

"Ah, hey, I’m pretty straight-edge, Kate," Clint says, not because it’s true but because he never wants to take strange plants from a woman. Not after that one time in Madripoor. And that other time in Rome. Oh, and that  _other_ time in—

Well, look. Clint should probably just never take anything from anyone ever again.

Kate rolls her eyes. “It’s not a drug, you dummy,” she says. “Like I said, it’s  _mistletoe_.”

And at that, Clint’s brain sputters to a stop. He looks at Kate, then at the mistletoe in her hand, then back at Kate again.

"Oh," he says. "Uh."

"You know," Kate rushes to add, looking sick now but plowing on. Brave, brave girl. "Like, it’s Christmas. And tradition. So. I just thought…" Her hand closes and opens at her side, a nervous tic. 

Clint’s throat tightens for a second. Because he really would like to kiss Kate, he thinks. Sometimes he catches sight of her, deadly and graceful in a fight, the only cover he’s got, someone just like him—human but gifted, messed up but  _trying_. And instead of feeling fond, or like, proud…he feels hot all over. Like he’s going to die if he doesn’t touch her.

Those moments are not as unexpected as they used to be, is the thing.

Which, well. Maybe it doesn’t have to be bad. Maybe it can be good. Kate’s been privy to the stupidest shit he’d done in the past year, and she has yet to make him feel like a fuck up when he doesn’t kind of, well, deserve it. And she’s saved his ass at  _least_  a dozen times. She’s—she’s a great  _partner_ , beyond just being a great friend. 

And he’d asked her to spend Christmas with him for a reason, hadn’t he? Decided that he wanted to show Kate what the city looked like, muffled in snow, just a mess of tiny twinkling lights from the rooftop of his shitty building. Planned to gift Kate with the lightweight bow and set of exploding arrows that he’d had Stark make special, an inscription on the underside that reads simply  _to a rad superheroine and her intrepid dog_. He’d asked Kate over, and it had been that hot feeling all over again, the full body anticipation of something just beyond platonic.

Which, looking at Kate’s face now, the way her focus keep zeroing in on Clint’s lips, the half-lidded look in her eyes, she’s on the same page.

So yeah, Clint’s thought about it. Taking the friendship and comfort between them to another level. The question lately is whether or not he and Kate are _ready._

"Clint?" Kate asks, quietly. Her eyes look slightly shiny, her mouth a trembling, straight line. The mistletoe in her hand wavers, like she’s trying to decide whether to throw it away and claim ignorance, pretend this never happened in the first place.

Which kind of makes Clint’s decision for him. He reaches out, circles Kate’s wrist with his hand, then reels her in.

Presses a kiss to her mouth, and swallows her moan down.

"Merry Christmas," Kate says, looking dazed, when they part.

Clint grins, tugs the end of her Santa hat. “Merry Christmas,” he answers.


	15. Sam/Natasha, clothes swap

Prompt: Sam/Natasha, clothes swap

* * *

 

The fifth time he gets an epic wedgie in the middle of a battle because his jeans are too tight, Sam seems to decide something has to change.

"Natasha," Sam says when they meet for their weekly Starbucks date, "I think I gotta start wearing spandex."

Natasha sips her tea, unmoved by the announcement.

"Or you could just wear looser pants," she suggests, eyebrow raised.

Sam takes a defiant bite of his pumpkin bread _. “_ Not when Captain Booty is over there shaking his little butt at everyone,” he says. “I’m already just a dude with wings. I need to hold my own, y’know?” He preens a little. “The internet says I have a nice ass. I gotta give the people what they want.”

Natasha takes another sip of her tea, this time to maybe hide a laugh. Sam frowns.

"I’m  _serious_ ,” Sam says. “I need an outfit that won’t get all—you know—bunchy. Something stretchy, so I can show off what my mama gave me, too.” He frames his hands in a square, squinting like he’s envisioning a scene in front of a camera. “Spandex,” he says. “Lots of it.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Is this how the average American male comes of age, or something?” she asks fondly. “I didn’t realize.”

Sam grins. “Nah,” he says. “It’s how American  _superheroes_ come of age.”

Natasha gives him a considering look. “Not just  _American_ ,” she says after a pause, conspiratorially.

Sam blinks. Looks her up and down. “…what, really?” he asks. Then, “What?  _Really?”_

Natasha shrugs and steals Sam’s pumpkin bread. “Really,” she confirms.

Which is pretty much how Sam ends up wearing Black Widow’s catsuit.

|

"It’s a special lycra spandex blend," Natasha explains for the  _thousandth time_  as Steve laughs himself sick. “It  _stretches_.”

Sam sniffs. “Yeah, Steve,” he says. “It stretches. Probably if it had a cowl like your outfit, it’d even fit  _your_ fat head—”

Natasha brandishes her gun. Casually. Sam and Steve shut their mouths. 

"Boys," she admonishes. "The catsuit is not intended to cause fights. It’s intended to give Sam a sense for how he might move in this kind of material. He’s been feeling…constricted, lately."

Steve looks abashed at that. “Sorry, man,” he says. “Probably I’m the last person on planet earth who needs to be laughing at a guy in spandex.” _  
_

Sam tugs on the zipper of the catsuit, trying ineffectually to get it to go a little higher than mid-chest. “‘s alright, dude,” he says cheerfully. “I almost laughed myself into a fuckin’ coma the first time you wore those leather go-go boots—”

"They’re combat boots painted  _red—”_

Natasha holds up her gun again. The two men shut their mouths. Again.

"Let’s do a test run," she says pleasantly. "And Steve? If those pictures go on Instagram, I will  _ruin_ you. As far as the world knows, that catsuit is mine and mine alone.”

Steve pockets his phone guiltily.

|

Turns out, the catsuit is just about perfect for Sam. There are some—minor support issues, but nothing that can’t be solved by a good built-in cup. Natasha makes a mental note to ask Clint later; he spent the eighties in purple spandex, if she remembers the files correctly.

She squints as she looks to the sky, the elegant shape of Sam in all his long, muscled glory, taking flight against the clouds. The metal of his wings is a lovely contrast to the sleek lines of his body under the catsuit, and as he tilts to the right, ducking and swooping down to the ground, Natasha glimpses the infamous gift that apparently, Darlene Wilson passed along to her only son.

"Nice ass is right," she mutters appreciatively.

Sam’s right—only spandex will do, from here on out. Anything more would be a  _crime_.

|

The next morning, Natasha walks into breakfast wearing one of Sam’s shirts. And only one of his shirts.

"What?" she asks, smiling behind her coffee at Steve and Bucky’s stricken looks. "He got to wear  _my_ stuff.”


	16. Steve/Bucky, clothes swap

Steve/Bucky, clothes swap

* * *

 

Bucky’s away at basic, and Steve’s—

Steve’s—

Lost. Sad.  _Drowning_.

It’s embarrassing, almost. Because he’s a self-sufficient guy, he really is. Honestly. He’s had to learn, hasn’t he? To breathe, even when the air is thick and his lungs are weak. To paint and draw, even when it’s so cold that his fingers are curled into stiff shapes and won’t unbend. To stay awake through illness and work, even when his body is exhausted, when he feels like he can’t go on. 

Steve  _does_  go on. That’s what he does. He doesn’t give up. He’s got a tenacity that took root in his bones long ago, and he’s okay. He’s really okay. 

But he misses Bucky something fierce.

Sometimes, Steve feels like a heart that never stops beating; he supposes, then, that Bucky is the blood pumping through a network of veins, the thing that keeps that heart going. Cocky and concerned in turns, he’s the push and the pull, a cajoling arm around Steve’s neck, an encouraging hand braced against Steve’s back. A fist in the dark, the press of a shoulder, the muttered explanation that he knows what it’s like, that the bullies ain’t getting away with it  _today_ , not with the two of  _them_  on the job.

He _'s_  a low voice in winter. The only voice in Steve’s dreams.

And he’s gone. For the first time since Steve’s known him, Bucky’s gone, and it feels like the the emptiness is a living thing, mocking Steve, closing over his head every second.

 _Left behind_ , it says.  _He’s gonna leave you here, where every street corner wears his face and every bar has his name, and you’re gonna be **alone**._

It’s bad enough that Bucky could go off to war any second, that he’d be shipped out and fighting faster than Steve can blink. But now, Steve is starting to see what it’d be like, if he can’t get himself enlisted, too. If he can’t get himself shipped out, same as Bucky.

The dishonor and shame of it is one thing. The  _loneliness_  is another—and possibly even less tenable than the first.

Steve sighs, and lets himself sink to the floor of Bucky’s room. No one but him has to know about the ugly hollow feeling in his chest, he supposes. He can just this once allow himself an indulgence, can’t he?

After all, there’s no one to see the way his fingers shake as they rifle through the shirts piled in neat squares on Bucky’s bed, tracing the folds and buttons of all these shirts not taken along to a training facility out West. 

And there’s no one to make fun of him as he picks up an old shirt in particular, color faded and hem too long and collar rumpled, still smelling of pomade and dust and the slightest acrid tang of sweat. 

Finally, there’s no one, no one at all, to tell him how stupid he’s being as he decides to tug the shirt on, buttons it up over his skinny chest and shivering limbs, feels the cotton slip over his skin like it’s Bucky’s hands, warm and dry and familiar.

No one but Steve himself to see his body curled into the hardwood floor, pretending for a long, suspended moment that the shirt on his back is actually the all-encompassing embrace of the best friend he’s ever known.

Steve falls asleep with his fingers tangled in the sleeves of the shirt, hands tucked up beneath his chin, cloth brushing his mouth as he whispers message after message into the cotton, like the words will bleed through the material and reach their intended recipient through some miracle of transference.

Hoping against hope that somehow, Bucky can feel him, too.

|

Thousands of miles away, in a dark bunk in an even darker room, in barracks where men hang pictures of their dames, where people fret about war more than the folks they’re leaving behind, Bucky Barnes stares at the ceiling and works his fingers over the cross at the end of the chain around his neck. The one Steve’d given him for his sixteenth birthday, a little bit of faith in a faithless world.

He brings the cross to his lips for a fleeting moment and prays. 

Feels lucky that even here, he’s got a piece of Steve to keep. 


	17. Clint/Kate, high school AU

Clint/Kate, high school AU

* * *

 

"You’re drooling," Billy says, nudging Kate’s elbow and dropping into a seat next to her on the bleachers. "You’re drooling over a blonde meathead wearing a purple hoodie."

Kate arches an eyebrow and surreptitiously wipes her mouth. “Said pretty disdainfully, for a guy who wears a  _cape_  to school.”

Billy sniffs. “I’m expressing my creativity,” he says imperiously.

Kate gives a lascivious grin. “And I’m expressing my abject thirst for someone with ab muscles that ripple,” she says. More drool. Oops.

"Kaaate," Billy chides. "You know he’s a teacher, right?"

Kate scoffs. “A  _PE_  teacher,” she says airily. Her eyebrows furrow as she follows the line of the man’s shoulders, the focus of his gaze on the target in front of him. “A PE teacher with… a longbow and a bag of arrows?”

Teddy comes out of nowhere, drops into the seat behind them. “Oh, Arrow Dude’s not really a teacher,” he supplies helpfully. Billy tilts his head up and Teddy drops a kiss onto his forehead. Kate mimes a finger stuck down her throat.

"He’s a former student," Teddy continues, grinning at Kate’s grossed-out expression. "Only a few years older? Rumor has it that he does special ops for some shady government group now, but sometimes he comes back just to hang out with the locals."

Kate leers. “I’m a local,” she says. “He should hang out with me.” 

She’s only fifty percent making an innuendo, is the weird thing. Arrow Dude is intriguing.

Teddy and Billy exchange looks. “You can try it,” Teddy grins. “But I’m pretty sure he makes you shoot with him.” 

The blonde guy does something complicated with his fingers and the arrow lets loose with frightening accuracy. Kate’s heart jumps at the  _thwang_ of the arrow meeting the target dead-center. 

"Not a problem," she says, raking her hair back into a ponytail.

Teddy and Billy exchange looks again. “I… didn’t know you were into archery, Katie,” Billy says carefully. 

Kate zips up her leather jacket and adjusts her sunglasses, ponytail whipping her in the face as she turns.

"I’m not," she grins. "Never shot an arrow in my life. How hard can it be?"

With that, she takes the bleacher steps down, two at a time, shouting: “Hey Blondie—ready to give a  _real_ sharpshooter a turn?”

Teddy chokes back laughter. “Oh my god,” he says feelingly. “What are we about to watch?”

|

Turns out, they’re about to watch Clint Barton give Kate Bishop the most condescending archery lesson in high school history. Which then turns into Kate Bishop ramming an elbow into Clint Barton’s middle, snatching the longbow from his grip, and aiming perfectly at the target in the middle of the field. Which  _then_ turns into Kate Bishop splitting Clint Barton’s arrow down the middle, a feat never before accomplished. Like, ever. Anywhere.

Clint looks at Kate with a bemused, dumbstruck expression on his face.

Kate buffs her nails and looks exceptionally pleased.

Teddy quietly slips Billy a wad of bills.

"Ten more bucks says they’re doing it under the bleachers before the end of the day," Billy whispers gleefully.

|

"Dudes," America says later, after seventh period has ended and everyone is piling into Tommy’s car to skip the last class of the day. "Don’t go  _anywhere_  near the bleachers for the next couple of hours.”

She makes a face and props her legs in Eli’s lap.

"Purple underwear  _everywhere_ ,” she says


	18. steve/bucky: nightmares

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, nightmares

* * *

 

 

What Steve never says is that he has nightmares, too.

They start as dreams, sometimes. Sweet, lazy, half-formed. The warm weight of Bucky’s arm draped across Steve’s waist, the smell of his skin and shampoo, no sound but the soft rush of his breathing. Sometimes, they’re full of heat, the restless shift of Bucky’s body, the slick heat of his mouth, the smile curling his lips till each kiss feeds into a laugh, then a kiss once more.

Other times, they start as nothingness, a swallowing darkness and a cold like ice. Solitude and despair so thick it clings so Steve’s skin like smog, crawling down his throat and choking him. The echo of a muttered curse and gunfire, a distant “No, not without you!” layered discordantly with a low “Right, ‘cause you got nothing to prove.”

But always, they end the same:

Steve, on a train, reaching out his hand as the world falls away and Bucky falls with it.

In his nightmares, Bucky never stops falling. He stares at Steve from the red - stained hole of a wintry ravine, and his mouth stays twisted in a scream. He loses parts of himself the way a tree loses its leaves, and his fingers splay, as if searching. He dies and he lives and then he dies again, over and over again in degrees, till he comes alive one more time on the burning floor of a Helicarrier. Even then, he falls. To save Steve, he falls.

And in his nightmares, Steve—Steve is still on that train, watching from a great height, too slow to do anything at all.

When he wakes up, it’s usually to discover he has punched the metal frame of his headboard so many times that there is blood on his hands.

He buries his cheek in Bucky’s hair, accepts the soothing noises and desperate kisses, and thinks resolutely:

_At least this time, it’s my own._


	19. steve/bucky: then and now

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, then and now

* * *

Picture this:

Bucky at nineteen, back pressed against the crumbling brick surface of a narrow alleyway, the sharp planes of his face revealed only by slices of moonlight. He’s got his hands shoved into the back pockets of Steve’s trousers, hiking him up till Steve’s hips notch and align with Bucky’s own. Bucky doesn't realize he's lifting Steve off the  _ground_ till Steve squirms and curses in this low, anguished voice that Bucky’s never heard from him before. And then there’s this bemused smirk on Bucky’s lips as Steve practically climbs up his body in an effort to get closer, but it drops away, falls into the darkness as Bucky’s mouth goes soft and round and hot and messy under Steve’s. and then they’re kissing, and Bucky’s making the same low, anguished sounds now, coming deep from his chest, groans like he’s desperate, reaching for Steve like he could crawl into him and stay.

There are little flashes illuminated by the dim light of the night sky: the sharp slopes of Steve’s shoulder blades as they move under his shirt; the curl of Bucky’s fingers in Steve’s hair; the fan of Steve’s lashes when he skims his nose under Bucky’s jaw; the elegant line of Bucky’s throat when he throws his head back and Steve starts sucking a bruise right where his neck meets his shoulder. They’re a picture in motion, starts and stops, hidden from view but so, so exposed at the same time.

Now picture _this:_

Fast forward almost eighty years later, and Bucky’s got his hands in Steve’s hair again, like he needs something to hold onto, and Steve’s so much bigger but he’s still crawling up Bucky’s body, still tilting his head up the way a flower does to the sky, thirsty for rain. 

And they’re kissing again, and they’re making those  _sounds_ again—only there’s less desperation and more like, quiet yearning, this aching loneliness that reverberates in every touch and sound as if they can’t quite believe what’s right there in front of them.

But with each pass of Steve’s hand over Bucky’s heart, firm and grounding, an anchor rather than a confinement, Bucky relaxes. Feels like he belongs, to himself and to someone else of his  _choosing_ , like he’s found a partner again, not a captor, like he’s slotting into place, the key to someone’s lock, the latch of someone’s door.

And with each muttered, “Steve,” the tender way Bucky’s voice wraps around his name, the history that bleeds through the sound, Steve breathes easier. Feels like he’s sinking into his skin again, coming home, cutting through water and swimming to shore.

Nineteen or ninety-something, and the very best memories the two of them will ever have are still the ones they make together.


	20. Bucky/Laura, identity

Prompt: Bucky Barnes/Laura Kinney (X-23), identity

* * *

 

Two people stand in the middle of a remote wilderness, trees buried in snow and the moon hanging fat and full in the sky, overlooking a vast stretch of land, empty for miles.

The winter cold brings with it the same kind of memories for both of them; though they don’t move a muscle, their gazes flicker with something like a shiver.

"This ain’t no place for a lady," the man says. There is blood smeared across his metal knuckles. It’s not his own.

"I’m not a lady," the woman responds. "I’m a weapon."

Her hands are metal, too. After a fashion. Blood drips steadily from the glinting claws that extend from her bones.

It’s not her own, either.

The man tilts his head, looks at the moon. There is smoke in the distance, a facility that stands burning and secrets that lie buried. It is where the woman came from, as surely as it is where the man ended up.

Despite their meeting now, this was not a salvage mission. Sometimes, the only way to get rid of the lab chair that haunts the periphery of each memory is by destroying every lab chair that exists, everywhere.

"We’re all weapons, in the end," the man says, and his mind for a moment is somewhere very far away.

Then he turns to the woman, grins suddenly, sharp and bright. “But some weapons get names. And a choice.” He inclines his head, the picture of old-timey respectability. “Mine’s Bucky, and  _I_  choose to raise a little hell.”

He holds his hand out, steady and sure. The smoke in the distance continues to rise. The facility continues to burn.

"What’s yours?" he asks. 

The woman breathes in through her nose. 

A beat, and then she steps closer. Takes the hand briefly, as if it’s an object foreign to her.

"Laura," she says slowly. "And I choose…myself."

They turn to face the fire, past the woods at the edge of the clearing. There is the faintest suggestion of satisfaction on the man’s face, echoed in the relief that makes the woman’s face young and soft for a split second.

"They keep finding me," she says, almost to herself. "They think they own me."

The man folds his arms, rocks back on his heels. “They always do,” he says. “Till we show ‘em they don’t.” 

And then his dangerous smile is mirrored on the woman’s face. “Okay,” she says, and it’s an agreement to an offer neither of them even knew the man was going to extend.

They leave the snowy clearing with footprints soaked in blood. But they walk towards the dawn, and that’s hope enough.


	21. Bucky/Kate, Student Teacher

Prompt: Bucky/Kate, student teacher

* * *

 

”Stop making eyes at me,” Kate says. “You’re trying to get me off my game.”

Bucky makes a motion like,  _go ahead, your Highness_ , sarcasm rolling off his stupid leather jacket in waves.

Kate looks down the sight of her gun. “I’m unflappable,” she insists, and pulls the trigger. Her body jerks back with the recoil, and she ends up on her ass.

The bullet hole at the foot of the tree trunk is kind of taunting. Kate makes a face.

"Look," she says, rolling her shoulders back and struggling to get on her feet. "I just don’t  _like_  guns. Can we try arrows instead? I like arrows. I get arrows. Arrows are easy.”

Bucky drags a hand over his face. “That’s the point,” he says, giving her an aggrieved look and helping her up. “We live in a world where you’re not always going to have your tool of choice. You’ve gotta be able to use whatever weapon you’ve got at your disposal.”

Kate snorts and readjusts her grip on the rifle in her arms. “Whatever,  _MacGuyver_ ,” she says.

"I don’t get the reference," Bucky responds primly. "Although if I did, I might mention that my hair is way better than Richard Dean Anderson’s."

Kate swivels to face Bucky, the gun swinging with her. “You watch MacGuyver?” she asks, eyes lit up.

Bucky grabs the rifle as it careens wildly. “Jesus,” he says. “Be careful, Kate. I’d be really embarrassed if you killed me by accident and not by design.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “You’d be dead,” she says. “You can’t be embarrassed if you’re dead. You can’t be anything if you’re dead.”

Bucky leans in, still holding the rifle. “Don’t be pedantic,” he says. Though his face is stern, there’s a gleam of humor in his eyes, something warm and friendly that makes Kate’s cheeks go slightly pink.

"Well, don’t have such little faith in me," she responds, turning her nose up. She swings the gun back around, hefting it up and aiming it at the target set up across the way. A breeze lifts the strands of her hair, exposes her neck to the soft stir of Bucky’s breath as he stands behind her, aligning her hips and adjusting her stance.

"I have a lot of faith in you, actually," Bucky says quietly into her ear, just as Kate’s finger presses on the trigger. The shot goes wide, lodging itself further up the tree trunk. Kate curses quietly, giving a stink-eye to the target, then the tree trunk, then the gun in her hand.

"…just not a lot of faith in your ability to aim with anything other than a stick with a sharpened point."

Bucky’s voice is dry, but there’s an amused undertone to it again, like he’s enjoying himself. Kate eyes Bucky speculatively from behind her purple-tinted sunglasses. 

"You cheated," she says. "You tried to distract me, with your weird proximity to my person, and your unexpected affirmations of my skill."

Bucky folds his arms. “I dunno what you’re talking about,” he grins. “You’re unflappable.”

Kate points a finger at him. “I’ll have you know that I’m cool as a cucumber under pressure. There was this incident with Clint and a credit card and unmentionable places and we will  _never_ speak of it again, but I handled it like a pro.”

Bucky squints. “I’m not going to ask,” he says.

"Good," Kate responds.

"Look, I just want you to be safe, Kate," Bucky says. "And that means teaching you everything I know." His eyes flit down, away. He rakes a hand through his hair. "You’re very good at what you do. Now, I’d like you to be very good at what I do, too."

Kate sighs, touched in spite of herself. “Well,” she says. “When you put it like that.”

She turns back to the tree, looking dubiously down at the rifle. “Give me some backup, Barnes,” she orders, lining up her shot. 

Bucky’s voice is warm as he comes to stand next to her, shoulder to shoulder. 

"Always," he says.


	22. steve/bucky, uniform

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, uniform

* * *

 

 

 

Bucky leans over and says, “But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”

Steve should’ve known something was up right then. Bucky doesn’t just ask questions like that for the sake of it.  
  
|  
  
Steve gets his own private quarters above the pub that night, one of the benefits of being both the man of the hour and—pretty suddenly—a Captain, besides. No one seems to pay much mind when Steve insists that Bucky stay with him. Recuperating from HYDRA torture  _and_ an excess of drink seems to be an excuse enough.

He grins as he turns the doorknob of his dingy little room. Bucky sure was  _lit_  tonight. And why shouldn’t he have been? Steve’s buzzing himself—he’s at war,  _finally_ , and he’s helping,  _finally,_  and just this once, something  _he_  did means they all won something big. They got Bucky back. He wants to celebrate.

Maybe Bucky got a head start with the drinking, but. Steve gives a secretive smile. The two of them, they’ve got their own ways of celebrating. _  
_

"Hey, Buck," he says, walking into the room, "have you seen the…oh.."

The door opens and shuts behind Steve with a decisive click. He stands in front of the door, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He’d meant to ask where his makeshift shield was, but. Well. He can  _see_ where it is.  
  
In Bucky’s hand. As he wears Steve’s abandoned Captain America getup.  
  
"You’re not the only one this thing’s growin’ on," Bucky smiles dopily, striking a pose.

|  
  
Thing is, Steve thought the tights were kinda stupid when he was the one wearing ‘em. But seeing Bucky in his colors ( _America’s_  colors, Steve reminds himself sternly) with his hair mussed and a giant star at the center of his chest, well.

It sure does something to his insides.

"You still drunk?" Steve asks, sauntering closer.

Bucky smirks. “Nah,” he says. “’s odd—drank so much I saw double for about an hour straight. And then I was fine. Helluva headache, but fine. Guess my body knew what kinda shenanigans I’d be gettin’ up to tonight, huh?”

He peels red gloves off, one by one. 

Steve’s mouth goes dry. “And what kinda shenanigans are those?” he asks. 

Bucky grins. He fiddles with his belt, unsnaps it with a triumphant noise. Then, with a little swivel of his hips that goes straight to Steve’s dick, he nudges the shorts down his muscled thighs. After a thoughtful pause, he rolls down the tights, too. He’s not wearing underwear

"Stevie," Bucky says earnestly, giving him one of those  _looks_. “The kind of shenanigans between  _pals_.”

He’s hard, and he’s still wearing the ridiculous top half of the outfit, and those boots, but. He’s  _hard_ , and so, God help him, is Steve.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve mutters, stepping forward and dropping to his knees. It’s different than it used to be—he’s taller now, he realizes with a start. He spits into his hand, closes it around Bucky’s cock. A jolt goes through him at the low, desperate groan that rips through Bucky at Steve’s touch. It’s like he’s been starved for it. Like he’s been dreaming of it. 

"Pals," Steve says under his breath, amused. "We’ve been funny kind of pals for a long time now, Buck."  
  
He strokes, his fingers longer and stronger now, palm wide and callused. His body runs so hot these days that he’s not surprised to see Bucky’s throat work at the combination of spit-slicked skin and heat. Steve rests on his heels, finds himself tilting his head back to look at Bucky, with his too-shiny blue eyes and soft pink lips and hectic red cheeks. Bucky, with stubble and dog tags and messy hair, shadows in his smile that Steve wants to edge out with desire, affection.

He leans in and nuzzles the hard plane of Bucky’s stomach. Under the thin material of the outfit, the muscles quiver. Bucky’s hands come to a rest in Steve’s hair, gentle.

"I ain’t a hero, friend. But don’t I just look the part?"

Steve shuts his eyes, bewildered at the echo of emptiness in the swaggering words. He speeds his strokes, swiping the moisture at the head, slicking Bucky up just to hear his breath snag. Just to erase that haunting turn of tone.

"You’ve been a hero our whole damn lives, dummy," he says roughly. "Like that’s gonna change."

A gasp, and a laugh. Bucky’s fingers curl into Steve’s hair. “Nah,” he manages, even as Steve leans in and swirls his tongue around the head, gripping the base and sucking sloppily. “N-not the t-type— _Jesus_ —of kid to need s-saving anymore, are ya?” 

And isn’t that a joke. All Bucky’s ever done is wade in and finish Steve’s fights or patch him back up. This is the first time ever that it’s been the other way around. 

Suddenly the getup makes a lot more sense.

Steve wants to tell Bucky that wearing the costume isn’t what makes him a hero. Steve wants to tell Bucky that staying behind in a burning building, getting tortured but pushing his best friend ahead of him during the escape—that’s the kind of stuff that makes him a hero.

Instead, Steve keeps sucking, swallowing down as much of Bucky’s cock as he can, humming at the way Bucky’s hips begin thrusting, rocking into the hot, wet home of Steve’s mouth. His fingers clench in Steve’s hair, short of painful, and even that little mindfulness makes Steve’s insides tighten, gets him harder than he thought he could be.

Bucky’s  _Bucky_ , and that’s better, more necessary, than he knows.

With an obscene, wet sound, Steve pulls off of Bucky’s cock. He continues stroking, Bucky’s hips pushing into his fist. 

"I’m always gonna need saving, Buck," he says, voice ravaged the way that gets Bucky’s eyes smokey and dark and possessive. "And it ain’t gonna be Captain America that saves me." His voice is low, almost a caress, when he says, "It’s gonna be  _you_.”

And then, with a cry, a strangled, hoarse sound that comes from the very soles of his feet, Bucky comes, hands cradling Steve’s head like it’s something precious.

"Shit," Bucky says, when he can finally speak. He drags Steve up, up, and up. So tall now that Steve looks down at  _Bucky_.

"This outfit’s ruined," he says with a rueful laugh. "Sorry, Stevie."

Steve leans in, tilts Bucky’s head up so they’re kissing, an affirmation, a promise. “Don’t need it anyway,” he says. “One Captain America’s plenty. An expert sniper with a dirty mouth and a protective streak as big as the Pacific, though. That’s something we could use.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. His hand lands on the bulge in Steve’s pants, and he grin.

"Sure," he says, opening the clasp of Steve’s belt buckle and giving an assessing look. "Besides. I kinda like this outfit too."


	23. Sam/Natasha, Explosions

Sam/Natasha, explosions (Sam/Clint/Natasha mentioned)

* * *

 

Natasha pokes her head in the living room, a glint in her eye.

"It’s ready," she says cryptically.

Sam gives a bright smile and throws the game controller at Steve’s head. “Sorry!” he says over his shoulder as he follows Natasha out of the room. “You got super healing powers, it’s fine!”

Steve rubs his forehead gingerly and looks balefully at the screen. “I didn’t want to play MarioKart  _anyway_ ,” he says.

Bucky, from the couch, snorts. “Don’t worry, Steve. I’m still your friend.  _And_ I won’t ditch you for a woman who could kill you in your sleep.”

Steve brightens.

"…mostly because I can’t find one besides Natasha. And she’s taken."

Steve frowns.

There’s an explosion from outside. Bucky grins. “Cool,” he says, staring out the window. “Fire.”

Steve blinks. 

"Come on," he says, resigned, a second later. He heaves himself off the ground, picks up his shield, and trudges outside, Bucky at his heels.

"Yes!" Sam shouts, grinning big. He gives Natasha a kiss, dipping her low. When he lets her back up, her cheeks are red but her hands stay possessively on Sam’s waist.

"Natasha," Steve says. "Sam. Did you guys…blow something up?"

Bucky mutters, “Must be a day that ends in ‘y’…”

Sam pulls Natasha closer. “I just gave her the idea,” he says modestly. “My girl is the one who pulled it off.”

"And Clint," Natasha reminds, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at the guy sitting on the rooftop behind them. Steve and Bucky turn to stare.

"My girl  _and_ my boy,” Sam allows. He blows an exaggerated kiss to Clint, who returns it with even more theatricality.

Bucky laughs. “Steve,” he says. “This guy’s in a threeway relationship with superspies  _and_  he got ‘em to blow shit up.” He shakes his head. “And I thought  _you_  were a menace.”

Sam gives a sweeping bow. Natasha huffs. 

"To be fair," she says, "We only blew up something  _little_. Just a tiny explosion. Like a baby explosion.”  
  
The kiss that Sam lays on the side of her neck hides his smile at her lie.

On the rooftop, Clint is shooting arrows into the small inferno in the sky. Whatever he’s doing is dispelling the debris and erasing any evidence that the explosion even happened.

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “Remember when I was the one blowing stuff up?” he asks plaintively. 

Natasha pats his arm good-naturedly as the troop into Sam’s apartment. “We sure do, Steve,” she says.

|  
  
Two days later, there’s a news report of the disappearance of a beloved inflatable restaurant mascot from a nearby pancake house. Something about it being let loose, floating away, then…bursting into flames.  
  
When Steve asks Sam about it, he only says: “Pancake Pete oughta think twice before puttin’ up something that  _stares_ at you with beady, soulless—”

"—inflatable—" Bucky interrupts.

"—unnerving eyes," Sam continues, as if Bucky had never spoken. "If I had to drive past there one more time while that face looked at me…"

Natasha, curled into Sam’s side, nods. 

Steve sighs.

"Who wants to play MarioKart?" he asks, and prays that there’s no more explosions in the horizon.


	24. Steve/Bucky, Fourth of July

Prompt: Steve/Bucky, 4th of July

* * *

 

Bucky kisses Steve on the 4th of July.  
  
They’re on Sam’s rooftop, sharing a case of beer and sitting with their legs dangling over the edge. The fireworks are loud, grating in a way Bucky doesn’t remember them being ever before. But then, he doesn’t remember a lot from before. His name. His death. And Steve. Always Steve.  
  
So there’s a burst of color and noise from above, a shattered star of red and gold in the black sky spread out over them, and it strikes Bucky that his body is flinching but his mind is calm. The physiological reaction is ingrained, a response to the explosive sounds. But the mental reaction is new. Last month, a car backfired and Bucky almost strangled a passerby. Now though, here, on this rooftop and so close to the fireworks that his ears are ringing, Bucky feels…calm.

There’s a hand overtop of his own, fingers curled through his, thumb pressing into the tense muscles of his palm. An anchor in what could be a sea.

Bucky does things on impulse now, sometimes. No one to stop him, no one to give him orders to act. Just his desire, his own drive. So he picks up his and Steve’s joined hands and skims his lips over Steve’s knuckles.

Steve’s eyebrows raise. The fireworks reflect in his eyes, sparks of white in the deep ocean blue of his irises. Bucky likes the ocean; they’d gone a week ago, and the smell of salt was like all the tears he never cried because weapons don’t feel, weapons don’t—  
  
Weapons don’t love. Bucky’s not a weapon. He leans over, the ghost of a memory skating over his neck (Steve was shorter once) before his mouth slants over Steve’s, their hands still entwined between them.

Steve is warm, and solid, and real. His lips are soft and dry. He doesn’t feel familiar, and it surprises Bucky, that this isn’t something they’ve ever done before. He slants his head, and with a small sound, Steve opens for him, unoccupied hand coming up to clutch Bucky’s jacket, gripping for dear life.

Bucky smiles into Steve’s moan, the shift of his kiss, the slick heat of his tongue and the clean taste of him. His own unoccupied hand is snagged in Steve’s waistband, pulling him close even as he provides an immovable center of gravity. It wouldn’t do for them to fall off the roof during their first kiss.

They part finally when the fireworks die down, when there’s only the distant sound of celebration and a round moon casting silver light across the high planes of Steve’s cheekbones. He looks dazed.

Bucky picks up his beer and takes a sip. He wonders if his ears are hot because he is blushing as dark as Steve. 

"Don’t make it into a big deal," he orders.

Steve looks down at their still-joined hands and smiles.


	25. steve/bucky, clint/natasha: double date

Steve/Bucky, Clint/Natasha, double date.

* * *

 

"They're nuts," Clint says darkly, throwing a peanut into Bucky's beer. It sails in a perfect arc and plops right into the glass.

"Was that...intentional?" Bucky asks, looking pained.

Clint frowns. "What?" he asks. He looks at the peanut sinking to the bottom of the glass, then seems to think. "Oh! Ha!" He brushes his nails smugly. "No," he admits. "But I'm a very...punny person."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "Please stop," he says flatly.

Clint huffs. "Fine, man," he says, and leans back in his bar stool. "But I gotta have some fun. My date's over there with your date. I think they're trying to make someone piss his pants in abject fear. Because that's what they do. For fun."

Bucky plucks the peanut from his drink. "It's only a little fun for Steve," he insists. He pops the peanut in his mouth and gives a wide, placid smile.

Clint squints. "You guys belong together," he says decisively.

Bucky grins. "Yeah, we do." He nudges Clint's leg companionably. "You and Nat do too, in a twisted way. Like in a way that absolutely no one understands."

They turn in their stools to look at the dates in question. Natasha is standing over the crumpled form of a shifty looking man, boot on his wrist. Steve's hovering over one of the bar's waitresses, who is staring at the man on the ground with a disdainful look on her face. There's a greasy handprint on her ass, and a pencil jammed into the guy's hand. Natasha is grinding her boot into the man's wrist with detached pleasure.

Clint's mouth quirks. "No one else needs to understand," he says. "I know Nat. She knows me. Bone deep. And that's all that matters."

Finally, Natasha lets the man up. As he makes to grab her ankle, anger in his eyes, Steve gives a discreet kick to his ribs. The man goes back down, groaning. The bar cheers.

"Plus," Clint says, "Have you seen her? She could take me apart in a second. And I'd like it." He looks dazed for a second, as Natasha slants a sly grin over her shoulder at him. "I...kind of _do_ like it."

Steve raises his gaze from the man lying on the ground, the frowny little line over his brows smoothing out as he catches sight of Bucky. He raises a hand in greeting, a bright, smug half grin taking over his face. His muscles ripple in the low light.

"Yeah," Bucky says, chucking a peanut at Clint's nose as he waves back. "I get it."


	26. steve/bucky, sinister kid

Steve/Bucky, The Sinister Kid

* * *

 

Sam’s always known Steve was kind of a morbid guy. It’s just—after seventy years, and becoming a superhero, he sort of thought it would  _go away_.

He discovers otherwise after a run that’s exhausted him but left Steve with barely a fine sheen of sweat across his barrel chest. Collapsing on the couch, orange juice in hand, in the type of good-natured fit of pique that always follows one of their early morning sessions, Sam leans over and plucks out each earbud.

"That better be the mix I gave you," Sam says.

Steve gives a spooked look before reaching for the earbuds. “It’s not,” he responds. “Gimme.”

Sam slants a brow. “Ask nicely,” he suggests, thoughtfully. Steve’s got the panicked kind of expression of someone with a secret. He  _never_ has that expression. Mostly it’s a mix of determined, or angry, or shit-eating, or sad. Sometimes it’s a grin so bright that it eclipses the sun. And very rarely, it’s the face that gets underoos dropping all over the place.

But this? The way his eyes dart to the earbuds and back to his hands, skirting the edge of—wildness, almost?

Sam hums. “Wait, I changed my mind,” he says. “I need to sample the wares, first. After last time—” The Backyardigans Best Hits,  _really_? “—Well. Call it quality control.”

And then Steve really does lunge, but Sam’s used to wrestling with the big lug, and he manages to slip the headphones in just in time to catch a snippet of the lyrics:

 _—If I kill a man_  
In the first degree   
Baby would you   
Flee with me?—

"The Black Keys," Sam says. "Interesting. Think it suits you, man."

And it does, really. The boy with the broken halo. The kid who runs to meet his Maker. That’s Steve all over. People want to believe that Steve’s just in this business to do the right thing. But war is complex. Soldiers have all kinds of reasons. Sam knows that better than most, and he also knows that Steve’s got more twisted and tangled reasons than anyone could guess.

"Where’d you find the song?" Sam asks, more gently this time, giving the earbuds back and pretending not to see the fine tremble to Steve’s hands, the way he gets whenever someone comes too close to peeling back the layers he puts on, the ones he wants to pretend no one notices.

Steve swallows, puts the earbuds back in. His eyes go distant, softer. “Bucky,” he says. “Bucky, he—Natasha and Clint and…I think even Tony? They send him music, it helps with the dreams, and the anger, and the. Everything. They said.”

It’s true. Sam’s always pushing Steve to listen to music, in part because the man thrives on cultural edification, brain like his, and in part because it does help. With everything.

"And Bucky sent this song to you?" Sam knows how they still dance around each other, how banter gets bitter and stilted, how sincerity gets too heavy too quickly. The problem is, they never talked. Not about the things that mattered. Not near the end.

Sam doesn’t think it’s too late, but then. He’s not a supersoldier or superassassin who’s lost all of his past and part of his autonomy.

Steve grins, a ghost of a quirk. “Yeah,” he breathes. His fingers trace the iPod in his hand. 

"Let me guess—he thinks it’s about him." Sam takes another swig of his orange juice, pondering the thick-headedness of his friends.

Steve furrows his brow. “No,” he says. “No, Bucky knew this song was me from the second he heard it. He knows—” there is a break in Steve’s voice, fine, like a fracture under ice. “He knows who I am, good and bad and in between.”

Sam sinks into the couch. “Ah,” he says. “And you’re…embarrassed?” he guesses. Will he have to hug it out with Steve? This could get awkward.

Steve furrows his brow even more, clutches the iPod so tightly it slightly bends. “No,” he repeats. “I’m  _relieved_.” He takes another breath, closes his eyes. “He’s always had my number. In a way no one else has. And this is the first time—the first time since I came back, and he came back, that I feel known.” He opens his eyes. “Recognized.”

He smiles again, thumb swiping over the screen. “Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. And I guess I still do.”

Sam reaches out to rest his hand in Steve’s hair, an affectionate, brotherly pat that he hopes conveys all his love and sadness for Steve. He can’t imagine the loneliness of staring into a mirror and feeling like no one else sees the same thing you do. He can’t imagine losing someone who’s crawled under the skin of you.

He’s glad that Bucky is home. He’s glad that Steve is getting there.

"Let’s work on sending him something, too," Sam suggests. "I’m  _not_  letting Barton infiltrate your playlist.”

 


	27. Steve/Bucky, Flirting

Steve/Bucky, flirting

* * *

 

"Are you flirting with me?"

Bucky blinks. Steve is looming over him, frown on his face and a notch between his brows. He looks confused.

"I’m eating breakfast," Bucky says evasively. He flicks his newspaper and goes back to reading.

A big hand crumples the page like tissue, ripping right through the middle.

"You tore right through the funnies," Bucky observes mildly. Sometimes Steve still doesn’t know his own strength. Other times he just has no patience left, and knows Bucky can take it.

"I got another copy in my bedroom," Steve says distractedly, still looking at Bucky with bewilderment in the tilt of his mouth.

He leans closer, getting right into Bucky’s personal space, hands sliding over the arms of Bucky’s chair, bracketing him in.

"Are you flirting with me?" Steve asks again, lashes low over eyes that are impossibly blue.

Bucky cocks his head, considering. “Well,” he drawls. “Seems to me… _you’re_  the one who just mentioned the bedroom.”

Steve’s brow crinkles, then smoothes out, before his face goes slightly pink.

"For the  _funnies_ ,” he clarifies, sputtering. He doesn’t, however, back away.

So Bucky gets closer, nose to nose. Daring, teasing, affectionate.

"It wouldn’t be that funny, Steve-o," he says graciously. "You just need practice, is all."

Steve narrows his eyes. “Practice, huh?” he says dryly. “Must be true, ‘cause it took me long enough to notice  _this_.”

Bucky hides a grin. “Notice what?” he asks, widening his knees, sprawling in a lazy, easygoing spread in his chair. There for the taking.

The blue darkens. Heat sparks along Bucky’s own vision at the way Steve shifts, swallows.

"You’ve been tryin’ to get me going," Steve accuses. His voice rumbles from his chest, deep and quiet.

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to look up through his lashes. “Well, pal.” He lifts his shoulders, neither a confirmation nor denial. “I ain’t gonna say I have or I haven’t been, y’know? I like to play my cards close. Unless you wanna tell me…”

He drops his hand over Steve’s, the metal against flesh, silver and gold, a study in contrasts. Steve’s fingers clench around the arm of the chair.

"Did it work?"

Bucky’s mouth is quirked, and after a moment, Steve’s follows suit. It’s been a long time—too long—since Bucky’s seen fit to goad Steve, to push him and prod him, and be friendly with him again. For so much of his journey back to the man he could be, Bucky’s kept his people at arm’s length. Anchors, but not touchpoints. 

Somewhere along the line, though, things changed. A shift. The brush of Steve’s thumb on Bucky’s pulse point, the glint of Steve’s smile in the early morning dawn. The line that kept Bucky bound, tied up so tight, loosened. Unraveled. 

And here he is. Sitting in a chair with Steve curled over him, their lips an inch away from touching. 

For a flash, a lightning strike of a moment, the calculation drops from Bucky’s posture, and it’s complete sincerity. Genuine, full-bodied, open desire. And like that’s all Steve needed, the careful indecision on his face dissolves, to reveal the kind of sheer  _want_  that makes Bucky’s blood turn into flame.

"Steve," Bucky says, a little more shakily than usual. Steve leans into him, closer, eyes dropping halfway shut, mouth slack. Drawn completely in by the gravity of their combined heat sinking into the air.

"Yeah, Buck," Steve says, hoarse. On the arm of the chair, Bucky’s fingers slip through his, aligning one by one. They tangle their hands together and even though his arm is metal, Bucky swears every nerve ending is alight.

"Ask me again," Bucky says. 

For a second, Steve’s mouth skims Bucky’s, a half-strangled moan in the back of his throat. He huffs a laugh around his next words:

"Are you flirting with me?" 

Bucky beams, a shit-eating grin if there ever was one.

"I sure am," he says cheerfully, then surges up, one hand in Steve’s hair as he kisses the goddamn breath out of him.

 


End file.
